


Thidwick the Big Hearted Moose

by Fehnryr



Category: Supernatural
Genre: for a prompt, not really wincest at all but can be read that way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:57:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1940163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fehnryr/pseuds/Fehnryr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there is one thing Sam Winchester has had enough of, it’s alternate universes. Their impromptu visit to the set of Supernatural The Television Series was weird enough, and watching Charlie disappear into Oz with no intention of return wasn’t much better. But now he’s here, wherever here is, and Dean’s unconscious in his arms  and he doesn’t know what to do. </p><p>Or, a crazy witch sends Sam and Dean packing to an alternate universe and Dean won't stop throwing up blood. Sam's got to find a cure and fast, but nothing seems to work, everything is the wrong color and the people are just fucking wacky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thidwick the Big Hearted Moose

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt contest that was something along the lines of "Sam and Dean get sent to an alternate universe and one of them is dying" or something. Honestly it was a really awful prompt but I spit this out so here it is.

If there is one thing Sam Winchester has had enough of, it’s alternate universes. Their impromptu visit to the set of Supernatural The Television Series was weird enough, and watching Charlie disappear into Oz with no intention of return wasn’t much better. But now he’s here, wherever here is, and Dean’s unconscious in his arms and he doesn’t know what to do. 

For starters, they need a roof over their head. The sky above is threatening to let loose any second now and they certainly didn’t pack clothes for this little trip. 

“Witches, man,” Sam tells his unresponsive brother, “can’t stand ‘em.” It’s would Dean would say, anyway.

If Sam weren’t beaten, battered, and running on two hours of sleep and no coffee, he’d just haul Dean over his shoulder and take off down the road. But he spent the last hour running around a forest and getting slammed into trees by some crazy coven and his brother is just over six feet of dead weight. So instead he hauls him through the dirt to a bush and covers him up with brush and leaves, then takes off at a jog in search of a hijackable car.

He finds one about two miles down the road, but it takes him a little longer to find his breath. By the time he gets back to where he left Dean, his brother is stirring and weakly brushing leaves off his face.

“Sammy?” Dean croaks with a sandpaper voice. “Where are we?”

“No clue,” Sam admits, coaxing his brother upright. “Wherever it is, it’s not our world.”

“Why d’ya say that?” Dean rasps, letting himself be pushed into the backseat of an old Honda. 

“Well, the sky is green and the grass is blue for starters,” Sam answers matter-of-factly. He’s less concerned about the color swap and more concerned about Dean’s rising fever. 

Dean seems to notice all at once that he’s not at 100 percent, because suddenly he sits up. Eyes wide he gets out, “I don’t feel so-” and then Sam leaps out of the way so Dean can puke up his guts on the purplish sidewalk. They both stare at it for a minute, wondering if a person can actually survive vomiting that much blood more than once, and then the rain starts to drip from the sky. It’s yellow. 

“Gives a whole new meaning to pissing rain, huh Sammy?”

\--

It takes them about two hours to find a motel and by that time Dean’s drifted back to sleep, but Sam manages to get him semi-conscious and into the room. It’s obscenely colored, but if there’s anything the Winchesters are used to, it would be strange motel rooms. 

The chartreuse blanketed bed sings a siren’s song to Sam’s tired body, but there’s too much to figure out before he can sleep. Where did the witch send them? Since the knife Sam threw as they fell through the portal hit her square between the eyes and killed her, can they still get back? Why is Dean throwing up blood? How do they fix it?

He sets Dean up with some water (yellow like the rain, but it tastes just like water) and a bucket next to his bed. His wallet survived the trip and there’s a travel packet of aspirin, so he leaves that too. Then he slips out of the motel room and goes to find a cure.

\--

Three days later, Dean is well enough to shuffle around the motel room and eat small bites of red toast, but he’s still hacking up blood at an alarming rate. Sam’s tried everything from over-the-counter to stolen-from-hospital, but nothing seems to work. 

“Maybe,” Dean says on the fourth day when he notices Sam nodding off at the table, “we should figure out where we are first.”

Sam’s expression is half anger and half desperation. “We don’t have time to figure that out, Dean. You’re bleeding out from the inside and nothing seems to work. The angels obviously can’t hear us wherever we are, or they don’t care, but I can’t figure out how to get us back and I don’t even know how-”

“Sam,” Dean says. It’s quiet but commanding and Sam snaps his mouth shut. Dean nods. “What do we know about this world so far?”

Sam frowns, but complies. “Everything is colored strangely. The trees are shaped differently. The people are weird.”

“What do we know about the witch that sent us here?”

“She’s dead,” Sam says with no hint of regret.

“Okay. She was batshit crazy though. Kind of like the witch from Oz. Think we’re in Oz?”

“It’s not Oz.” Sam read the books, watched the movies, and waved Charlie off to her happy ever after and it didn’t look anything like this. “Wait…”

Dean’s happy to wait because as soon as Sam says the word, he starts coughing and hacking again. He stumbles to the sink and spits out a glob of blood. “Jesus, Sam,” he groans. 

“Rhyme! The witch only spoke a few times, but everything she said rhymed. It’s the same with everyone here! What if this isn’t Oz, but another book?”

“Perfect.” Dean rolls his eyes.

But Sam is out of his seat, pacing the room and making excited hand gestures. He’s on to something. “If we figure out what book we’re in, maybe that will tell us what to do to fix you!”

“Awesome. So if this is an alternate story universe and if we figure out which one, then if you read it we might be able to fix me?”

“Got a better idea?”

Dean’s not even looking at Sam and he can see the bitchface.

\--

The coughing fits take a lot out of Dean, so he falls asleep quickly. Sam is on a roll though and he starts making notes on a baby blue sheet of paper.

Weird colors.  
Everybody Rhymes when they talk.  
Witch Rhymed too.  
Funny trees.

Sam thinks and thinks until he gets a headache. Luckily the aspirin that Dean never took is still on the nightstand, and it looks like stuff from their world still works all right.

\--

Sam wakes with a start. His stomach is growling and his arm is asleep from where he fell asleep on it. He hears Dean puking in the bathroom again and he’s up in seconds.

It takes longer than usual for Dean to find his way back to coherent speech, but even then he’s burning up with a fever. Sam helps him tip back a glass of water to soothe this throat, but water isn’t going to help the fact that Dean hasn’t eaten in days. Sam suggests toast but Dean looks a little green at the thought.

“Can you think of anything you could keep down?”

“Not really. You look like a fox.” Dean collapses back into the mattress and falls asleep. 

Sam wonders if Dean is starting to have hallucinations. Last night he was sleep talking, telling Sam that he didn’t want a car. Or something like that; it was too slurred to tell. 

There has to be a connection to all of this. The crazy colors, the people that speak in rhyme. The crazy trees and Dean’s strange symptoms. Sam puts the bucket next to Dean’s bed again and goes to take a shower, hoping that he’ll be hit by a shower epiphany, but as he stairs at the questionable pink ring around the tub’s waterline, all he can think about this how hungry he is. 

So he goes to the diner.

He orders a salad, which comes in a confusing array of pinks and oranges, but it tastes just like a typical diner salad so he eats it anyway. Hoping that a full stomach will help his mind come up with answers, he gets up to pay the bill. 

“Just a salad, nothing more? Such a simple boy, what a bore.”

“Can I have the check?”

“If you want to pay, a rhyme you’ll say!”

Sam groans. “I don’t have time to rhyme.”

The clerk looks up with glee and Sam tries not to roll his eyes. “You eat for one but live with another. Shouldn’t you take back food for your brother?”

Sam is sick of this place. He’s sick of the rhymes and he’s sick of the colors and he’s sick of his brother puking up his guts every hour. He’s sick of the people and their creepy smiles and he is sick of feeling like he’s just on the edge of understanding, but not quite. But unless he comes up with a way to convey all that in rhyme, the clerk isn’t going to care one bit. So instead he sighs and drags his eyes up to the menu on the wall and then it hits him like a train. He knows how to cure his brother.

“My name is Sam. Give me green eggs and ham.”

**Author's Note:**

> Not so crazy about this really but whatever. I wrote it for a contest and I won so I guess someone liked it?


End file.
